Deblin

At first, we were accommodated in an abandoned house—on corridors, in the attic, and on the stairwell. The Judenrat in Irena, a nearby suburb, was notified. In the late afternoon, we received our first meal of this dreadful day: bread, jam, and tea. The floor was our only bedding.

We were grateful that outside, it was a wonderful spring day with warm sunshine—a stark contrast to our state of mind. We looked ahead to the next morning with anxiety. It was not hard to imagine the fear of those who had been left behind. I believe that none of us slept that night—not just because of the discomfort.

After the difficult night, we had a roll call in the morning. We were taken outside the airbase to a newly built, spacious wooden barrack. Inside, we found wooden bunks with thickly stuffed straw mattresses and two wool blankets each. This was to be our new lodging. After everyone had chosen a sleeping spot, we were led to the airbase for work.

Our guards were soldiers—evidently, frontline-ineligible troops—who reassured us and eased our initial terror. We were assigned to road construction and the building of embankments to shield aircraft from enemy air attacks since there were too few hangars at the airfield. The runway had been significantly expanded to accommodate numerous combat aircraft.

A fortunate coincidence occurred after just over eight days, shaping my fate, as well as that of my family and nearly 900 Jews, until our deportation on July 23, 1944. When I reflect on this moment now, nearly 26 years later, I must humbly acknowledge the workings of a higher power.

I was working at a concrete mixer. As I looked up from my task—being accustomed to staying alert from my previous work at the Tauern Power Plant—I noticed an officer observing us. Judging by his sleeve insignia, he was a Luftwaffe captain. At first, I couldn’t believe my eyes and thought my imagination was deceiving me. But the more I looked, the more certain I became.

It was a war comrade from the Austrian Infantry Regiment No. 24, whom I had carried on my back, severely wounded, through enemy fire from a hilltop on the Doberdò plateau to the medical post in August 1918. Normally, I was never plagued by feelings of inferiority, but at that moment, I hesitated to reveal myself. I had no idea how he would react. We had already endured bitter experiences.

Nevertheless, I decided to step forward despite my dirt-covered clothing and disheveled appearance.

At first, he was indignant at the audacity of a Jew, marked by a white armband called a “Lente,” addressing him. But as soon as I mentioned my name, my regiment, and the incident at Doberdò in a concise and military manner, he became approachable.

To the astonishment of my fellow workers and the guards, he embraced me and asked how I had ended up there. After I gave him a brief explanation, he went to the commanding officer and ordered that I be cleaned up and prepared for collection by a patrol the next morning.

As soon as he left, my comrades bombarded me with questions, wanting to know what had happened. I could only recount the past events, but I had no idea what lay ahead. That night, I was once again unable to sleep, my thoughts racing. I imagined the most unlikely possibilities—including returning with my family to Vienna. The initial belief that relocation to Poland meant a reprieve for us had turned out to be a terrible illusion. I feared the worst, but no one could have foreseen the horrors that would actually unfold.

The next morning at five o’clock, I was exceptionally allowed to leave the barracks for proper cleaning. At the well, I scrubbed myself thoroughly. Using the meager supplies available, I cleaned my shoes and clothes as best as I could, so that I looked somewhat presentable.

At 8:30 AM, a military policeman from the airbase escorted me to the airfield commandant’s office. I had to wait in the antechamber of Lieutenant Colonel Hönig, constantly scrutinized by passing officers and soldiers.

At exactly 9 AM, my former war comrade, Captain Eduard Bromofsky, entered the room. After some brief instructions, during which he addressed me informally, I was led into the inner office.

After a military-style report, I was introduced with the following words:

“Colonel, this is the war comrade I told you about, the one who saved my life. I would be very grateful if you could somehow help him, even though he has the misfortune of being a Jew.”

The lieutenant colonel scrutinized me for a long time. My upright posture and brief, precise answers seemed to make an impression. He picked up the phone and contacted the chief quartermaster, Wolfram, who was in charge of the Jewish labor camp.

The colonel informed him that he was assigning him an “exceptional Jew” and would discuss the details in person. I was instructed to report to Wolfram immediately, who would handle everything else. As I was dismissed, he reassured me:

“You don’t need to be afraid. In the Wehrmacht, especially among the airmen, you are in good hands.”

After expressing my gratitude, I left the office and waited outside for the captain to tell me what would happen next.

A few minutes later, Bromofsky returned and said:

“Hermann, you are really lucky! The lieutenant colonel took a liking to you and ordered the quartermaster to take care of you and make your situation easier. I also discussed your future with him. He explicitly told me: If Jews have any chance of survival in Poland, it is only in a labor camp—especially one run by the Wehrmacht. All existing ghettos are temporary; only those fit for work have a chance to survive. Everything else is doomed to destruction. If you want your wife and family to live, get them out of Opole and bring them here. I will help you as much as I can.”

I thanked him warmly and went to Wolfram’s office to learn more.

When I reflect on these events, it is clear that by 1940, higher command knew exactly what terrible fate awaited both deported and native Jews. That is why I always doubt when older people claim that only a few knew about the horrors, violence, and atrocities, because a “wall of silence” surrounded everything.

It is impossible for me to believe that so many accomplices remained silent. It seems more likely that it was a case of willful ignorance—a refusal to know, to silence a guilty conscience. That, I think, best characterizes this era. Millions of soldiers, civilians—including many opponents of the regime—and hundreds of thousands of forced laborers from occupied territories all supposedly remained silent or encountered disbelief? No rational person can accept that.

Even today, people have a tendency to trivialize things.

Through the quartermaster’s intervention, I was assigned to the Luftwaffe’s construction department under Engineer Figura. He appointed me as the group leader of about 100 Jews working in road construction for the Viennese company Autheried.

I was responsible for payroll, food rations, and even procuring essential medicines. This work gave me great satisfaction, as I was able to help those who were suffering in ways I had never imagined possible.

My position at Autheried not only benefited me—it later allowed me, with the support of the airbase commandant, to bring my wife from Opole to me.

Anyone who knew the conditions in occupied Poland can understand what a lifeline this was.

I carried the child in my arms, expecting that a patrol might stop me or even shoot at me without warning. All of this was within the realm of possibility, and yet I walked without fear because I felt deep inside that everything had to turn out well. Not just this time, but in all other precarious situations, I had this good, optimistic feeling. I don’t know what to attribute this to; in any case, I believed I was safe and would survive all danger unscathed.

The joy of my relatives was unimaginable when I arrived with Ruthi. They had been very worried about us, fearing the worst, and now they saw us safe and healthy. It was one of the happiest days of that terrible time.

I still remember the first deportation very well. It was in April 1941. First, the town of Ryki, about six kilometers away, was targeted. As I had probably already mentioned, I sat safely in the construction barrack of the “Auteried” and watched from the office window as the unfortunate people marched past. They were driven by the green police and the SS. The old and the young, struggling under the weight of their bundles, which likely contained only hastily gathered belongings—clothes, linens, or similar necessities. It was an unimaginable scene of horror: masses of people gasping under their burdens, whips cracking on those who stumbled, hesitated, or fell. Cracking gunshots, and at the end of the procession, Panjewagen (horse-drawn carts) full of corpses, bore witness to the terrible fate of those who had collapsed from exhaustion. For the first time, I saw the true face of the Nazi terror regime. For the first time, I witnessed such unspeakable brutality, the kind I could never have imagined. I would witness many more cruelties later, but that march of horror surpassed everything my mind could comprehend.

I had heard of atrocities—but to see organized mass murder, not even cloaked in a political pretense, with my own eyes was something else entirely. I am grateful that it was also the only time I saw it firsthand.

At this point, I feel compelled to address those who argue that enough has been written about these events, that we should finally put this unpleasant past behind us. I must insist that they are gravely mistaken. Only constant remembrance can prevent the regrettably large number of indifferent people from being drawn into the wake of those who still seek to justify that murderous regime. Those who did not experience it, who only know of these horrors secondhand, will struggle to understand that such things could have happened. No human imagination can fully grasp the reality of those events. The ingenuity of the sadists of the “Third Reich” was so vast that it surpassed even the most vivid imagination. The slogan “Never forget!” must be reinforced by continuous reminders so that it becomes “Never again!”

The crimes committed were so outrageous that no perpetrator should ever be granted a statute of limitations or clemency. Any attempt to whitewash or forget serves only to make this shameful chapter of German history socially acceptable again—as we can see on the current political stage. I am the staunchest opponent of collective guilt for an entire people, but for the crimes of the rulers of that so-called “Thousand-Year Reich,” there can be no pardon. In the name of the millions of tortured people across Europe and those displaced by the consequences of the lost war, I appeal to responsible politicians: avoid any form of assistance or connection, no matter how opportune, with those who still pull the strings of a resurgent movement that has already brought so much suffering to humanity. This general detour from my personal experiences seems necessary to me because it provides context for the following lines.

Some time before the German invasion of Russia, the construction barracks on the Vistula River were completed, surrounded by a wire fence, and occupied by Jewish and Polish forced laborers. The diagram on the following page illustrates the situation. I became the administrative clerk of the camp, which was under the supervision of a Luftwaffe non-commissioned officer. To assist me in the office, we brought in fellow Viennese Jews due to their proficiency in German. For medical care, we brought Dr. Wasservogel from Vienna and the dentist Zissu from Opole as a medic and for dental care.

The area where the camp was located was part of the Vistula floodplain, making it damp and swampy. Fifty meters away stood the Luftwaffe construction office, making it easy to reach our supposed protectors. Diagonally across from us was the air force fuel depot.

The first camp leader was Sergeant Kattengel from Magdeburg, who held office until March 1943. His small rank did not stop him from acting like a grand mogul. The authority over several hundred Jews intoxicated him with power. It required a great deal of diplomacy, combined with leveraging my good relations with the construction management and the commandant’s office, to keep him somewhat in check. I can still see him before me, accompanied by a massive black wolfhound, a dog whip in his hand, strutting through the camp like a petty tyrant.

We received our wages from the Luftwaffe construction office and were provided with rations calculated at 1,700 calories. We had our own camp administration and even ten Jewish camp policemen. We formed a self-contained community, while the Luftwaffe only provided our guards and otherwise left us to our own devices.

We collected our food rations weekly, and when we noticed that Kattengel was siphoning off supplies for himself, I managed—through tact and intervention with the construction office—to ensure that the food was stored in our own camp warehouse. Kattengel was left only with the responsibility of managing food supplies for the Poles.

Shortly before the war against Russia, typhus broke out in the camp, probably brought in by Warsaw Jews who had recently arrived. The camp was placed under quarantine. Only Dr. Wasservogel and I, since

I lived in town, were allowed to come and go, maintaining our connection to the outside world. We had been vaccinated against typhus in time and were very careful. Nevertheless, Dr. Wasservogel became infected and died in a Lublin hospital. We mourned his death deeply, and soon after, the dentist Zissu also passed away from a heart attack. For some time, we were left without a doctor in the camp until, in October 1942, after the last deportation from Irena, Dr. Kestenbaum from Ryki, Dr. Rosenbluth from Tarnów, and the medic Frym joined us. Additionally, veterinarian Dr. Fries arrived at the camp. We established a medical station and a kind of infirmary, always stocked with enough medications, which we received partly from the Jewish Aid Office in Kraków, partly from the commandant’s office from Wehrmacht supplies, and also from purchases at the pharmacy in Irena.

Given what I learned after the war, I can say with pride that our camp was perhaps the only one for Jews that remained so well-equipped until our evacuation to Częstochowa on June 23, 1944. Even after the SS took over the camp in late 1943, we managed to supplement the reduced rations with vegetables from Naleczów and our own garden, so that when our inmates arrived in Częstochowa, they were stared at like miraculous beings from another world.

Without boasting, I can claim much of what was achieved was due to my ever-watchful mind, my initiative in seizing every opportunity, and my unyielding activity in every situation. That such conditions existed in the years of chaos, the looming military defeat, and the blind, raging fury of the SS seems unbelievable, but it is the truth.

At that time, influential members of the Jewish Council wanted to appoint me as its president due to my German language skills and good relationships with the Germans. Although this position came with advantages, I declined because collaboration with the green police, the SS, and German administration seemed too dubious. Somehow, I still had more trust in the Wehrmacht.

The outbreak of war with Russia also led to a tighter organization of the camp. Soldiers were stationed outside as guards, while inside, control numbers were issued, and the camp population was meticulously checked on a weekly basis. When I received word from the commandant’s office that Irena was to be completely evacuated in the autumn of 1942, I dissolved my household in the ghetto and brought my entire family into the camp. This presented me with a problem that caused me much anxiety. According to camp regulations, only those fit for work—meaning no children—could be admitted. Fortunately, female labor was employed at Horst, in agriculture, and in the company. The large kitchen and the tailoring workshop also employed women. This gave me enough opportunities to place female family members, but there was no chance for children, especially toddlers like Ruthi, to be admitted.

With this concern, I turned once again to Wolfram, who had already proven to be a guardian angel once before. Unfortunately, Captain Bromofsky had since been transferred to the front, and despite diligent inquiries, I had heard nothing more of him. But a miracle happened. Wolfram contacted Lieutenant Colonel Hönig, a very humane officer. He explained that keeping families together would be beneficial for morale and willingness to work. As a result, I was granted permission to register all children as agricultural assistants, assign them control numbers, and thus officially count them as camp inmates. One cannot imagine my joy when I returned from the commandant’s office and was able to share this wonderful news with the anxiously waiting parents.

Enough years have passed to have some distance from these events. When I consider the well-known realities of the East, it seems incredible that something like this could have happened. Certainly, a great deal of pragmatic calculation played a role in carrying out this humane act—the desire to maintain our workforce and a general indifference to what happened within the camp. But the very fact that the commandant’s office knew everything and tolerated it clearly shows that it was possible for superiors—even in a small labor camp—to save lives. Our guards did not think much about the presence of children, especially since they saw them gathering potatoes or performing other tasks and thus classified them as workers.

Following this, I obtained permission to establish a barrack specifically for families. Two women acted as kindergarten teachers, allowing parents to go to work with peace of mind. The children were taught reading and writing, and they were even taught various games. The camp became a community, almost as if in freedom. A “Chevra Kadisha” (Sacred Brotherhood) was established to conduct burials, and the dead were buried in proper shrouds. Religious services were held on holidays. During Passover, matzot was baked in the camp, and Orthodox Jews were reportedly kept back in the camp on the Sabbath under the pretense of being assigned cleaning duties to prevent them from working on the holy day. It all sounds unbelievable, but it really happened. The camp commandant was interested in preserving our labor force but otherwise left us in peace.

By September 1942, the camp population stood at 542 Jews, but after the final evacuation in Irena, it grew to 970. The group was a diverse mix, even in terms of nationality. The majority were Polish, followed by Slovaks, Hungarians, Austrians, and Germans from the old Reich.

The camp was also diverse in character and social background. Aside from the very small number of intellectuals, there were many craftsmen, small merchants, and also many unskilled workers and illiterates. Many, driven by selfishness and the instinct for self-preservation, sought only personal advantages, regardless of the community. Maintaining a structured camp discipline for the benefit of all was perhaps the hardest challenge. The well-intentioned were in the minority, while the undisciplined were capable of reckless actions. Additionally, almost daily, there was the nearly impossible task of maintaining an order acceptable to both the construction management and the commandant’s office. It required every ounce of concentration to stay focused on work, and I wonder today how I managed it. I believe my unyielding will to survive, my concern for my family, and my unbreakable optimism in even the most dangerous situations were the driving forces behind my success.

There were indeed many dangerous—life-threatening—situations. I will try to describe a few events that illustrate the circumstances. But first, I want to discuss the difficulties of my role as the camp’s administrative officer. Many envied me. A foreigner was in charge—one who refused to engage in corruption, who was immune to bribes, and who insisted on Western-style order and discipline, almost like the Germans? This was unheard of for the Poles, and I made enemies even among my closest colleagues, who tried with all means—fair or foul—to bring me down. I learned of reports against me to the commandant’s office, the construction management, the gendarmerie, and even the German camp leader and German supervisors of the labor groups. Only the special respect I had earned over four years through my steadfast conduct ensured that all such attempts failed. I saw many of these denunciations—they were shown to me—but I took no action, even though I certainly had the means to seek retribution. I knew that primitive revenge would only make matters worse, that I could expect even more hostility from the punished person’s relatives, and that this would endanger not only me but many others as well. In this case, caution was the better part of valor, and time ultimately proved me right.

September 22 was the day of the final deportation from Irena. Early in the morning, SS officer Lieutenant Philippi visited the camp leader, Kattengel, who soon called for me. I was asked how many people were currently in the camp. I reported the number as 543.

I was then given the following categorical order with particular emphasis:

“Today, there is a deportation in Irena. No one may leave the camp. No one may go to work at Horst. Tomorrow, I will come, and if I find even a single Jew from Irena in the camp, I will ensure that the SS from Lublin liquidates the entire camp! The non-commissioned officer and you bear full responsibility for the strict enforcement of this order.”

The news was devastating. I knew that many relatives of my fellow prisoners were still in Irena. A deportation would bring despair and severely weaken the discipline we had worked so hard to maintain, putting us all in danger. What could I do under a camp leader who was all too eager to carry out orders? I dared not make such a serious decision alone. So, I decided to consult a group of respected older men whom I highly valued—Eckhaiser, Bronspiegel, Schulmann, Dr. Kestenbaum, and Dr. Fries. Together, we decided to warn the Jews of Irena and to try to obtain a blank work assignment from the German head of the agricultural department, who was open to gifts, so that we could officially register as many Irena Jews as possible as farm workers. This would provide cover against Lieutenant Philippi. It was a well-thought-out plan—but I was the one tasked with executing it. My objections were dismissed with the phrase, “God will help.”

I set out. The “Council of Elders” secretly alerted the Jews of Irena, and as the work groups returned, over four hundred people flooded into the camp—including the nearly 80-year-old Rosenzweig couple and many children whom I was to list as workers.

The plan with the agricultural supervisor worked perfectly. A pair of new boots, a kilo of coffee, and two bottles of vodka were the “open sesame.” To avoid the appearance of a bribe, I paid the official fraction of the black-market price. At the construction office, I legalized the agricultural assignment, and in record time, I arranged the necessary paperwork. Control numbers and food stamps were issued, Kattengel was persuaded, and we anxiously awaited what would come next.

Against all expectations, Lieutenant Philippi forgot to visit, and our fear of a thorough inspection was alleviated.

Gendarmerie Master Petersen arrived at the camp and summoned Kattengel, who immediately granted him unrestricted entry, despite the strict directive from the construction management stating that entry into the Jewish camp was only permitted to outsiders with their approval. I did not dare to deny Petersen entry, even though I suspected he would only cause trouble. Petersen asked for the young man, Puterflam. When I inquired about the matter, he explained that he was investigating a report by the foreman Rudolph from the Berlin construction company Schulz, which alleged that Puterflam had repeatedly left his workplace without reason and had not shown up that day.

“I want to have a look at the boy,” Petersen declared. Since it was nearly the end of the workday and the first groups were already marching through the gate, I had no choice but to excuse Puterflam by claiming he was ill. Puterflam was indeed an extremely frail eighteenyear-old, and it was easy to believe that he was physically incapable of enduring the grueling labor of track construction. Unfortunately, the labor assignments at Schulz were not under our control but were overseen by the Irena Labor Office. The Schulz company merely had the right to house a group of forced laborers with us if they could not be accommodated in the company’s own quarters. This was arranged contractually because Schulz was also carrying out road construction projects for Horst.

I was powerless to help Puterflam and had to watch helplessly as events unfolded. At Petersen’s order, Kattengel called for a roll call. All camp inmates had to assemble, and in front of everyone, Petersen shouted at Puterflam:

“Why are you sabotaging, you Jewish swine? You know how crucial it is to complete the tracks for the war effort! You know that every worker is needed!”

Puterflam timidly protested that he was ill, to which Petersen responded with a powerful strike from Kattengel’s dog whip. Screaming in pain, Puterflam collapsed onto a bench behind him, and mercilessly, a hail of blows rained down on his writhing body. Puterflam staggered and fell to the ground. In an instant, his tormentor drew his pistol and shot the boy in the back of the head. A brief twitch, then his body lay still.

Then came the repulsive scene that I can only recall with the greatest disgust. Petersen pressed his boot against the dead boy’s throat, causing his pain-distorted mouth to open and his bloody tongue to protrude.

A sigh of relief escaped Petersen’s chest, and with a deep exhale, he concluded his crime—a crime that bore witness to the full perversion of this so-called “superhuman.” Petersen undoubtedly had enough intelligence to understand that his act was cruel, inhumane, and sadistic. It could not be excused as mere brute force or thoughtless cruelty. Rather, it was a deliberately cultivated perversion, fueled by the incessantly propagated hatred toward all people who were not privileged to belong to the so-called master race.

The second incident also involved workers from the Schulz company. Kattengel received orders from foreman Rudolph (or perhaps even from the construction manager, Gailhorn?) to detain two specifically named workers in the camp. Lacking a designated holding cell, he devised the idea of enclosing a three-square-meter area with barbed wire at the camp’s perimeter and imprisoning the men there. They spent a night within the confined space, and the next day, Rudolph arrived with the gendarme Edek. They had Kattengel hand over the detainees. Behind the camp, out of our view due to the non-commissioned officers’ barracks, we heard two short gunshots. When we reached the camp gate, we were ordered to bury the dead.

This disgraceful act strengthened my resolve to have Kattengel replaced. But that was easier said than done. Openly speaking against him was not only dangerous for me but for the entire camp. To make matters worse, Kattengel had developed an intimate relationship with a young Jewish girl, whose mother and two brothers were also in the camp. She did not hesitate to exploit this connection to gain privileges—not just for herself but also for other inmates who paid for her intervention. In short, widespread corruption of the most troubling kind began to emerge, as it became known throughout the camp and could endanger everyone. Furthermore, other young girls, envious of her advantage, tried to do the same. Preventing such scandals required great tact, diplomacy, and self-control. After all, German soldiers were strictly forbidden from having any contact with Jewish women, and the consequences of such affairs could be disastrous for the entire camp.

I often had to stand guard at night to disrupt these flirtations and clandestine encounters. It is understandable that Kattengel held little sympathy for me because of this and eagerly lent his ear to inmates who harbored ill will against me, making my life more difficult. When I consider how precarious our situation was, it is still a mystery to me how these affairs remained hidden. Even a single one of these incidents coming to light would have been enough for the SS in Lublin, to whom we were officially subordinate, to liquidate us.

Another event put us on the brink of catastrophe. Those who know how ruthlessly the SS waged war against Polish partisans will understand my terror when, during the brutal winter nights of 1943, ten Jewish partisans arrived at the camp, seeking refuge.

We had men, women, and children in the camp, ranging in age from four to seventy-five. Accepting responsibility for the inevitable massacre that would follow if the presence of partisans were discovered was unthinkable. So, I decided to consult the trusted “Council of Elders” before making a decision. Our discussion took place with extreme caution, late at night when most were asleep. In the end, we resolved to take the partisans in, as we were faced with a choice between the SS’s vengeance and that of the partisans. Our sympathies naturally lay with the partisans, yet the decision was an enormous gamble.

However, accepting the partisans did not lead to disaster—quite the opposite. When a damaged, burning aircraft crashed nearby, two partisans working on the airfield saved the pilot, a Knight’s Cross recipient, and his co-pilot. They pulled the unconscious men from the cockpit. The event caused a sensation at the airfield, and our camp’s standing improved in the eyes of all military authorities. A few months later, the two rescued pilots arrived at our camp on horseback to personally express their gratitude, commend the rescuers, and promise to advocate for the camp. We knew then that our decision had been worth it.

In March 1943, when Kattengel was replaced by Staff Sergeant Dusy, I and other responsible comrades breathed a sigh of relief. At first, we feared that Dusy, a long-serving non-commissioned officer, would be a harsh disciplinarian. Initially, it seemed so, but soon it became clear that he was approachable and open to persuasion. Most importantly, I was pleased that he did not adhere to the Nazi ideology of Jewish “subhumanity.” He often spoke to me about his positive experiences with Jews in his hometown of Königsberg.

I never felt like a suppressed prisoner—I maintained my self-respect and dignity. Knowing that Dusy recognized and respected this was a great relief. Over time, we became better acquainted, and his initial aloofness disappeared. Dusy strictly enforced the rule that no outsiders could enter the camp without authorization, preventing SS members and gendarmerie from intruding as frequently.

His tenure lasted a little over a year. During that time, we had ample opportunity to observe him. His attitude toward us was more positive than negative. Though no person is entirely good, Dusy made an effort to ease our suffering. Given all the terrible experiences we had with Germans, he was a rare exception.